Moments
by Ruralstar
Summary: Owen Hunt has lived his life from moment to moment since returning from Iraq. A picture of who Owen thought he was and who he has become in the wake of the PTSD incident featured in GA 5x19 "Elevator Love Letter"


Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC television, Shondra Rhimes and Co. No copyright infringement is intended.

Moments

The line between Owen Hunt's Before and After was as tangible as any wound he had ever treated. It was a laceration of the soul that seeped bloody memories and fractured logic. The torn edges refused to knit and bleeders would occasionally erupt in unpredictable geysers of misdirected anger or panic. Pieces of the past were propelled into the present without heed to the damage they might inflict. Each time, Owen pushed them behind the crumbling wall in the back of his mind. Uncertain how he was supposed to feel and incapable of articulating what his life had become. As the days following his discharge evolved into weeks, he became accustomed to the hyper-sensitive reiterations of trauma. Pleasure in any form left him flummoxed, however. Random flashes which added color and depth to a normal person's life felt inherently wrong to a man who struggled with the guilt of survival. Owen wondered where the will to smile or laugh came from. Yet he did—for moments at a time.

There were seconds and long hours when Owen thought about the revolver in his bedside table. He knew he should turn it in to the police department or throw it in the sea. He could not find the energy to even open the drawer. And wished to God he had not bought it when he returned from Iraq. In those first chaotic days buying a gun felt like the only thing he could do to ever feel safe again. It was the height of an irony he could not explain and it scared the hell out of him. Then he saw Cristina Yang standing amidst the group of Residents on his first day at Seattle Grace. He tried to pretend that it did not matter. To deny the tiny spark of hope her presence fostered. His feigned ignorance only enhanced the connection that had somehow formed between them weeks earlier. Almost without realizing it, Owen revealed the why of his altered state. Cristina's reciprocation of trust only days later was his first indication that he was still capable of having a positive impact on someone's life.

He began to live for the few but substantial moments that followed.

There were frequent flashes of anger and frustration. The instances that made Owen smile often succeeded them. He watched Cristina grow from a self-involved over-achiever to a person capable of compassion. She made mistakes and learned something each time. Owen struggled to lead by example and dared a sense of pride when she excelled almost in spite of his fumbling efforts. It was easy to bear witness to success. He discovered, much to his relief, that he wanted to be there for the failures as well. To comfort her in some small way comforted him. Those moments he treasured, and drew solace from when the visitations of the past threatened to overwhelm his fragile control. Maybe it was unfair and maybe it was all an illusion. He did it anyway, never suspecting where it might lead.

God, she made him laugh.

Gentle, secret laughter he hid from everyone save her. Alone on the vent with her hair flying around them both, he reveled in the rare smiles she shared. He laughed like a small child, held her hands and felt the first tentative responses. Owen had been a tactile person in the Before. A slap on the shoulder for a job well done, a squeeze of the arm to show compassion. He taught by doing and was not afraid to guide the hands of a tentative student. Such unconscious contact was nigh impossible after Iraq with anyone but Cristina. Feeling her small fingers curl around his lit a fire far more intense than banal sexual attraction. These were moments he could let his guard down and allow a ray of light to encroach upon the darkness.

She touched him when it wasleast expected and most needed.

Like the near strangulation, Owen had no memory of the story he told in her shower. He recalled showing up at her door a drunken ass. The idea of taking a shower seemed like a good one. Where hardly mattered, only the necessity to make Cristina happy seemed important. He turned the water on and stepped into the cold spray. The answer to her surgical question came unbidden and spilled out of him in a surge of grief that narrowed the world to her expressive face. Only later did he awake shivering and confused in her bed. There was a warm body close at hand, the soothing scents of crisp sheets and cedar. He felt small hands stroke the damp hair from his temple. For a moment he was safe and free to slip back into unconsciousness. Morning brought clarity and stinging regret.

Cristina gave him another chance. She saw in that forgotten memory the man yearning to be heard. It was a turning point neither had anticipated. Suddenly they were sharing moments that suffused Owen's body with liquid heat. The way her hair cascaded down in a cataract of ebony curls. Those full red lips and the mole on her neck. The way their fingers lightly brushed when they thought no one was looking. Her scent lingering in the air whenever they crossed paths at the hospital or shared a drink after hours. Flirtatious moments that spawned enigmatic smiles and made the anticipation of their first time so much sweeter. These he savored as he moved through his day and then went home to an empty apartment still stacked with packed boxes. Owen started to believe that there would come a time when he was not so broken. He would be a teacher in a different sense—and a student.

Before and After clashed in a moment of recognition he felt the fool for not having predicted. Owen was shattered and desperate to be alone with freshened grief. Cristina would not let him hide. She held on in a very physical sense until the tears receded and his breathing eased. Her demeanor was uncharacteristically gentle when she told him to meet her in the on-call room. He hesitated but without any real strength of will. An hour later, he walked into the room without knocking. Cristina gestured for him to join her on the narrow bed. Light fingers stroked his hair and the world drifted away. Owen slept without care.

Beth and Mike Whitman's arrival at the hospital gave Owen an all too vivid picture of who he had been Before and who he had to be here in the After. He could no longer deny the one dimensional nature of his existence. The ghost spoke to Cristina, begged her to give his life definition by simple acknowledgment. For a moment he was terrified that she could not see or understand. Then she was looking up and the earth started to spin again. Owen had never been so intimate with anyone in his life.

He was a teacher. Alex Karev's diagnosis of the trampled band member and Cristina's grudging acceptance of Margaret Campbell's wisdom were small, important victories of the spirit. The number of positives began to multiply and expand until Owen had minutes and then hours of equilibrium. Inadvertently throwing Cristina across a hallway surprised him almost as much as it did her. Hope had softened his vigilance. Cristina's assertion that she would not walk away strengthened his resolve to protect them both. Not even Derek Shepherd's crisis of faith could completely undermine that decision. Only later would he see his reaction to the other man's assertions as a warning of the storm to come. A part of Owen _had_ gone dead inside. He knew it and subconsciously chose to depend upon the numbness to shield Cristina from the visceral manifestations that haunted him.

The illusion of control convinced Owen to lie back on Cristina's bed instead of going home to sleep. He believed that her mere presence was enough to bring calm. He remembered drifting off to the white noise of the fan slowly rotating above them. The shadows of the blades on the ceiling gradually blurring as exhaustion took hold. The world exploded back into focus at the sound of his name. He woke lying in the middle of crumpled blankets and broken sundries. The sounds of someone gasping and crying sounded tin-like beneath the roar of his racing pulse.

Twenty minutes later, Owen left the apartment with Meredith's vicious whispers still ringing in his ears. The drive across town was a series of snapshots devoid of any logical connection. A junkie stumbled out of an alley. On the next block a hooker leaned through the window of a parked car. Two quick blasts from a passing ambulance made him jump. The glare of red and blue lights atop a police cruiser caused his eyes to water and his gut to clench. He pulled over and dry heaved into the gutter, hoping the cops would not stop to ask why. He tapped the support post with the bumper of his truck when he parked in the garage beneath his building. The jolt of metal to concrete rattled his teeth. The next picture was his neck in the bathroom mirror. Scratched and bloodied by Cristina's desperate nails. Owen swallowed his rising gorge and went into the bedroom. He pulled out the revolver that lay in the bottom of the drawer and sank down on the edge of the bed. His throat ached with grief as he contemplated the oak grip and the silver barrel. Moments flared like mortar fire in the darkened room. The disarray of Cristina's bedroom, Callie screaming, Meredith's face, the angry red bruises on Cristina's neck, the feel of her small arms wrapped tightly around him, the taste of his tears and her skin…

Morning dawned without his being aware. The oak handle had grown deceptively warm in his stiff fingers. Owen dropped the gun back into the drawer and kicked it close. He would show up and do the job just as he had told Derek out in the woods. That's what people did. Somewhere in the darkness the resolution to be a better man than the neurosurgeon had usurped the cloying reality of what he had done to Cristina. He would face her and they would get through this. Why the event had happened was not important. He could think his way through it, had done so for months. Why stop now? She trusted him—or did she?

Owen did not allow the questions to take root as he drove across town. He arrived early for his shift and changed before the locker room filled with the departing night staff. Rounding the corner, he spotted Cristina leaning on the counter at the nurses' station. Words gathered like leaves in the corners of his mind. The small, fragile expressions crackled and crumbled as he started towards her. Meredith's quiet anger and Callie's resolve formed a higher, harder wall than their physical presence ever could. Owen's hands tingled with muscle memory and he jammed them into his pockets. The sound of his beeper going off as he walked down the adjacent hall ended the moment of grief-laden panic. He sucked in a deep breath and reached for the mantle of professionalism.

Then he was on the roof and the world froze.

"_Is that what happened last night? You had a freezing moment?" _

Moments of hate replaced panic and fear within a single heartbeat. Owen lashed out and walked away, truth ringing like gunfire through his pounding head. Derek Shepherd was a coward, an arrogant ass of the type that often went home from the desert in a body bag. The man might understand the brain Owen grudgingly allowed, but he did not understand the power of the human mind. He was wrong. The vehement assertion sustained Owen until he reached the vent. He stood on the grate and attempted to lose himself in the steam and the pulsating rush of air. The anxiety did not abate. Only solidified until he had to cough to breathe and close his eyes to shut out the shadows of the circulator blades. Cristina's arrival broke the spell and forced the truth from his lips.

"_Cristina, we can't do this. We have to stop seeing each other…"_

"_What? Why? Stop blaming yourself for something that is beyond your control…"_

"_We have to stop seeing each other…"_

"_Why?"_

"_Cristina, I almost…"_

"_Almost what?"_

She stood firm, daring him to say what they both understood. Owen yearned to hold her and extend the moment of trust she seemed so determined to offer. The sob caught in his throat when he tried and she pulled back and turned away.

If anyone had bothered to ask him,Owen could not have recalled the next few hours with any clarity. He treated patients on auto pilot. Answered only the most basic questions and confined himself to his office in between cases. What drew him to the on-call room late in the evening was a complete mystery. Cristina's arrival was somehow expected and yet he was still surprised.

_"I wish things weren't…that they could be…that we could be…"_

_"I know."_

Owen stood up knowing that a dozen kinds of fear were written on his face as plain as the scratch marks on his neck. He expected her to walk away even as he spoke. _"Can I…Can I hold you?"_

She took the first steps and Owen met her with a gentle kiss on the forehead. Slow to touch the flesh he had violated, tender to ease the ache of betrayal. Cristina leaned in and kissed him deeply. The moments stretched out like beads on a string. Her finger brushing his arm…liquid brown eyes searching his features as he lay her down on the bed… soft gasps of pleasure…hair like silk falling through his fingers…slim legs and the flat plain of her stomach…skin quivering and fever hot against his tongue…the taste of her lips…the soft, fleeting joy on her face… Owen immersed himself in each moment and in the end he lay down and cradled her close. She had come to him. They could get through this. He could make it happen with her help.

The illusion splintered into a million tiny shards at the sound of Cristina's voice. An apology he did not deserve, a submission to the weight he had no right to inflict. Owen's field of vision narrowed to her profile washed in the cold light creeping beneath the door. The gathering chill within raced to his fingertips as a tremor wracked her tiny frame. Tears slid down Cristina's face when she rose from the bed and wordlessly gathered her discarded clothing. Owen could not move until the door had closed behind her. Each breath became its own moment of overwhelming grief. There were no tears. Only silence as he curled into a tight ball on the bed and clutched the sheets still warm and smelling of her perfume.

Sometime after Cristina left, Owen found himself fully dressed and sitting outside. Joy, confusion, panic, fear, hate and love…each emotion was a crystal barb pricking his subconscious. He leaned his head against the wall of the hospital and stared up at the hazy sky. The back of the bench bit into his flesh and grated against his spine. He ignored the physical discomfort and allowed his mind to wander. Pictures of the past mingled with those of the present. In the clouds lay the thinning visages of people and landscapes. He tried to sort through them, seeking the light that had once been such a large part of his world. The dirge of the city inserted itself. The incessant clamor of the building at his back inhumed the pictures with random flashes of light and jarring bits of sound.

"Owen?"

The world snapped back into focus and Owen blinked to clear the mirage. He sighed raggedly and looked up into Derek Shepherd's concerned face.

"Are you okay?"

Owen looked down at his hands bone-white and trembling where they rested on his knees. "No," he whispered. "No, I don't think so."

"Come on."

A moment of decision too long in coming. Owen swallowed regret and followed Derek back inside the hospital.

~THE~END~


End file.
